


Behold, the Grave of a Wicked Man

by that_this_will_do



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hitchhiking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-12 23:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18457202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_this_will_do/pseuds/that_this_will_do
Summary: 11:59 am. She thought she would have finally panicked, here at the last.Coda to Blowjob While Hitchhiking by betts.





	Behold, the Grave of a Wicked Man

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Blowjob While Hitchhiking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17650364) by [betts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts). 



> Betts, your fic is so goddamn aesthetic. Thank you for bringing it into the world.  
> Please note the tag.

_Behold, the grave of a wicked man_

She woke up early the morning it happened. Unlike the hellish monotony of the last several years, waking up with a cell phone alarm at 7 am. Unlike the days and weeks of the trial, sleeping past noon to avoid the glare of the TV screen. Unlike the 4 am insomniatic defeat of those first nights back in the US. And unlike  _before._ Unlike all the beautiful, sand-sky, timeless mornings that bled into days into evenings into nights, with no clock but the sun and the lips against her back.

It was early.

Still-dark-outside, only-technically-morning early. And there were no stars. The city lights and the shifting clouds had swallowed them like a lover swallows a moan. Only polluted orange light left behind.

She lay under her sheets and unlike all the other mornings, did not try to sleep. She will not find rest again.

 _And beside it, a stern spirit_.

She thought she would have finally panicked, here at the last. She waited for it. Had been waiting since stepping off the plane in Dallas. Wondering each morning if today the regret would overtake her. If today she would open her eyes and see it. What was going to happen. What was happening. It would be the (fourth) third time. She waited for the regret like she used to wait for the fear. Like she used to wonder in between the sex and the simple, easy living when she would see him as a monster again.

She would have thought she would wake up screaming today like she did then. That the pain of the situation would cut her through her spine and she would  _do_  something, like she did then. 

Instead, she pushed herself out of bed and made coffee. Shitty American coffee from instant mix and too much milk. Sipped it as she checked her email, tapped out replies and clicked through task lists. Downloaded a report from her junior regional manager. 

She did not check the news. she did not make eggs.

 _There came a drooping maid with violets,_  

For the first year after she left again, he haunted her. She would feel his hands against her skin as she dressed. Hear his voice echo in her ear each time she hung up a phone call. See his muscled figure and his broad shoulders pushing through every crowded sidewalk. His black curly hair among the subway car riders. His dark hungry eyes from the shadows of each bar she found herself in. 

Even into the second year, she ached for his touch. She throbbed and burned in the moments she let control slip. In her new condo making dinner, in the lobby of a job interview, in the grocery store check out line. She would remember, and the want would flood her. A no-limit credit card would have put her back in his arms so easily.

She anticipated his responses every time she breathed to speak. She missed him full-body and tremble. The world she landed back in was so overwhelming she couldn’t think of anything but white sand for miles. She wanted him inside her. And he already was, his place built as firmly as the shack on the bay. 

_But the spirit grasped her arm._

The third year, she focused on the way he hurt her. On the bruises and the fights. The terrible things he did to her. She remembered the rope he tied her with when he thought she was leaving. She remembered his cruelty and his words, the way he cut into her. The way he made her treasure his praise because it came after so many biting remarks. But oh what praise it was.

The fourth year, she tried to forget him. She worked 40 hours a week in a job with a salary and benefits. She took the train at the same time every morning and evening. Dated nice people who were so polite its grinding. She went to therapy. When her mother asked again why she stayed away so long, she said that she met someone and he broke her heart.  _What was his name_ , she asked.

The fifth year passed, and she had been away from him longer than she was with him. In her waking moments she only remembered him occasionally. She lived as a byproduct of being alive and wanted no longer. When the FBI knocked on her door asking if she knew Bellamy Blake, it was easy to ask them if they’d like water or tea.

_“No flowers for him.”_

Of course she went to work. It was a Tuesday, no different than any other. She said hello to the doorman and logged on to her computer. Got coffee from the office cafeteria. Made phone calls. Answered emails. Accounting wanted numbers. HR called for a reference for one of her field reps. She gave her six-minute update in the weekly staff meeting. Went back to her desk and filed away the monthly reports.

_The maid wept:_ _"Ah, I loved him.”_

Her mother called her. Her esteemed medical practice profile photo flashed across the screen. She didn’t answer. Her mother knew, sort of. Had asked her about it time and time again.  _What happened? What did he do to you?_ She had been worried and harsh. Frantic under the facade. She had also tried to understand, during the period when she was going to therapy. To help her get over it. Like any good doctor, she had tried a variety of treatments. Threats, apathy, empathy, curiosity, pseudo non-judgement, pseudo non-interest.  _I just want to know what happened, baby._

To the extent that refusal can be passive, she refused to consider why she was calling. Only swiped the call away with a message. “Can’t talk now.”

_But the spirit, grim and frowning:_

She doesn’t remember the car ride to Whitianga or how she got to Auckland. She doesn’t remember the flight to Hong Kong or how much it cost. She doesn’t even really remember why Hong Kong. It was probably just the first one she found. She can’t recall a second of what happened in Hong Kong or the journey from there to California. Then to Dallas.

She does remember Dallas. She remembers that she didn’t leave the plane in California only through knowing she went through customs in Dallas. Too many people, too many questions. She felt the ache for him start as soon as the wheels touched down.

It was probably the accents that saved her. If the man that welcomed her back to the states had been from the Midwest, had talked in loud, harsh angles and pronounced the  _r_ in  _your_  like it was offensive, she might have turned back right then. Instead, the lilting drawl of the huge white man in a badly-fitting uniform hurried her through the line. She could have drowned in the self-hatred she felt but for the honeyed  _a’_ s and open syllables in “Clarke Griffin? Welcome back to America.”

_“No flowers for him.”_

Mostly, she remembers the way he kissed her the day she left. All force and take. He bit her lips, licked into her, keep her fused to him until she got lightheaded. He put his hands around her throat and she thought he might actually kill her.

He kissed with hate. Hate of himself, hate of her. He kissed viciously. Desperately. Then he let her go. Betrayal. Broken promise. He kept it for  _five_  years. “Don’t let me leave again.” Then he drove her to Whitianga because she had demanded it.

_Now, this is it —_

At 11:53, she felt something. Something small. A ripple, a stone dropping into shallow water. She clicked away from the tab she was in. Opened a new window. She paused with her fingers over the keys. 11:54. Still no panic. Still no tears. Only resignation. 11:55. What good would it do? To know? She already knows. She tapped his name into the search bar anyway. 11:56.

A picture of his face: the mugshot they took when they brought him back from New Zealand. Hair shaggy, beard grown out. She made it full screen. 11:57. He was staring at her from the photo, eyes lifeless like she had never seen them before. There had always been something behind them when he looked at her. 11:58. She remembered the hunger, the cruelty, the gentleness, the loving. He would not make her feel better about anything. He would be just as sharp with her now as she was with him. The joy, the triumph, the desperation. 11:59. 

She watched the clock tick over into 12:00. Stared at the number because her desktop clock didn’t count seconds. 12:00 PM. She did not breathe deeply. She did not sigh. She closed down the photo and exited the tab. 

_If the spirit was just,_

He was and was always a monster. He was the worst thing that had ever happened to her and he deserved it. He deserved nothing less. For the lives he took. For the life he stole–beautiful, ever-loving, warm fed and fucked life on the bay. For what he made her. This. This  _Nothing_. This mid-level manager in a cheap skirt suit. This white American girl who begged a corrupt institution to take her back. This piece of paper and agreeable appearance that got hired. This  _woman_ , moonlight and curves. To know the truth of time. To know what living is. To know a love so destructive it makes you. There was no going back. He would burn the way she still did. 

The last thing he said to her was that he didn’t want it. She hung up her office phone before he said what _it_ was. She didn't want to know. What she did was  _right_. She can know that.

 _Why did the maid weep?_  

“Bellamy Blake. 42. Convicted on 29 counts of murder, aggravated assault, armed robbery, and conspiracy to commit treason. By unanimous opinion of the jury, he is sentenced to death on June 2nd, 2019. He shall be executed at 12:00 pm noon." 


End file.
